


Mind the Dark

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, basically all the characters, in a Stardust AU, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Behind his smirk, he can glimpse the sadness present in the blue of Grantaire’s eyes--like the sky, and Enjolras despises the cliche, but supposes that Grantaire is a goddamned star from the goddamned sky, after all, since he’s chosen to believe it, and sky-colored eyes must be somewhat appropriate. “And you are one of those flames that the darkness will seek to put out,” Grantaire murmurs. “A great tragedy. Silly me, I thought to save you.”</p>
<p>Stardust AU written as a kink meme fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind the Dark

Enjolras had heard the stories, of course, and read them for himself as soon as he learned how. His room was a jumble of all of the books he could get his hands on--children’s books, history books, novels, and even atlases of the land over the wall, the land of Stormhold. It was a myth that few still believed in, despite the constant presence of a guard along the slight opening in the wall. Kept at his post for the preservation of tradition, it was said, though nearly everyone in the village of Wall had their own speculation. 

And Enjolras certainly did.

Naughty children were warned of the ferocious King Louis who ruled over the legendary nation of Stormhold, warned that he would steal them from their beds in the middle of the night and eat them for supper if they dared to disobey their fathers and mothers. Tales of a dark army, a thousand strong at least, and a wicked witch who draped herself in jewels while the people of Stormhold starved.

_Eat all of your supper, for the little children of Stormhold have none_ , Enjolras’s mother always chided him.

Of course, children always grew out of their belief in the fairy tale, except for Enjolras. His fear dissipated, once he was old enough, but not his _belief_ in the place, and it became strengthened by the reading of dozens and then at least a hundred old books and manuscripts that he dug up from the cracks and corners of the village library. Evil King Louis (though he cannot figure out if it is an immortal, constant King Louis, or several generations of them named for one another, but it matters little), and magic, and witches haunted the people of the land beyond the wall, Enjolras knew, even if no one else believed him. Though he knew better than to correct them, he learned that when he was ten and his father laughed loudly in his face, and then his classmates the next day, too.

He read and reread accounts from a lucky few who had escaped from Stormhold hundreds of years ago, describing the pain in their bellies and their hearts and tastes of smoke and fire that still lingered on their tongues from lives spent there. Others mentioned the gleam of magic that could still be bright and beautiful even in the darkest of places. 

Night after night, Enjolras dreamed of the darkness, and of the slivers of goodness and light that haunted the mystical kingdom to the north.

And Enjolras _believed._

_....._

The first time he tried to make it beyond the wall, he was sixteen, and the wall’s constant guardian chuckled harshly as he gripped his fists into Enjolras’s coat and threw him back.

“If there’s nothing out there, there’s no reason you shouldn’t let me pass,” Enjolras spat, from his place in the damp grass. He was nothing if not a walking argument, especially at that age.

“The law is the law, boy. I am simply its champion. Go home to your bed and I won’t tell your father about this,” the guard said, his spine and his voice like the touch of cold steel, although his only weapon was a plain wooden staff.

Enjolras dug his fingers into the ground and growled. The dirt remained in his fingernails for days to come.

.....

When he was eighteen, he tried again. This time he earned a lump on the back of his head from the guardian’s reliable staff and a night spent in a tiny, barred cell. 

“The wall is not mocked,” the guard grumbled, as he shut him in. A twist of a key, and he was gone.

There were no windows, and a single, locked door. Enjolras rubbed his swelling bruise and didn’t sleep at all, though the dreams of freeing Stormhold continued along the dark, close walls and hurt his eyes.

......

A year later, Enjolras did not cross the wall, not yet, but someone else did.

......

Marius burst into his room without knocking, as he often did, wearing a wide grin. The knees of his trousers were covered in grass stains and his russet-colored hair struck up in every direction, and Enjolras, from his place over a map at his desk, merely turned to Marius and raised an eyebrow.

If anything, Marius's grin grew even wider at his friend's all-too-familar expression of mild annoyance.

“I met a woman last night.”

Enjolras sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. “A woman, Marius? You’ve come to tell me about meeting a woman, because you think I _care_?” He loved his friend, loved him dearly. Marius was the only one who supported--or if not supported, at least _tolerated_ \--his fanaticism for Stormhold, when no one else in all of Wall did. But he was an utter fool when it came to women, and Enjolras never held back from telling him so. It was a different woman every week, with Marius, and every one somehow managed to break the romantic's heart. And every time he managed to patch it back together in a matter of hours, fit for presentation to whatever beauty he should come across next. Foolish Marius, but Enjolras couldn't stifle his fondness for the man, regardless.

Marius pulled up a chair beside Enjolras, and leaned in close. His steady brown-eyed gaze was in extreme earnestness as he announced, “I met a woman beyond the wall.”

It took much to truly rattle Enjolras, but at those words he fell out of his seat.

“ _What_?” He sat back on the heels of his hands, sprawled on the floor. “ _What_?”

A dreamy expression overcame Marius’s face, as he stared beyond Enjolras, at a vision only he could see. “She was the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. She saw me, too, you know. We locked eyes, and then I _knew_. It was love. I love her, Enjolras. Oh, she has the face of an angel, only even prettier--”

“I don’t care about your stupid love affair, Marius." Enjolras waved a hand. "How did you get over the wall?” He scrambled back into his chair and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “How?”

“She’s a captive though, of some witches. I couldn’t free her from them and their chains of sorcery. But she kissed me, then, and it was the most perfect moment of my life.” His smile faded away, and he refocused his attention on Enjolras. He cocked his head. “What were you saying?”

“The wall?” Enjolras didn’t bother to mask his impatience. "Its guard?"

“I was only walking by, coming back from the pub, and the guard was distracted. Probably looking out for you,” he added, sheepishly. “So I figured, ‘what would Enjolras do?’ and I started running. He saw me, but it was too late, and I was over.” He grimaced for a moment and wrinkled his freckled nose. “I’m sure he’ll lock me up for a week, once he finds me.”

“You have to help me,” Enjolras said, with an intense determination that almost frightened himself. It certainly frightened Marius, but Marius was nothing if not a good friend, and he listened well.

“What about Cosette?”

“Who?” Enjolras asked, and tried to swallow back his irritation.

“My love.” The dreamy smile returned, as if the girl herself were there and allowing Marius to bask in her angelic light.

“When I free the people of Stormhold, she shall be rescued, too." He was dismissive, at best. His goal was a given, a guarantee to happen. A destiny simply to be fulfilled, as Enjolras believed.

Of course, Marius was used to this fervor, Enjolras’s dedication to his fantastical cause. But Enjolras had been right, hadn’t he? There was life north of the wall, and people who needed help. _Cosette_ , held against her will by witches--Enjolras had even been right about the witches, hadn’t he--and she needed help, too. 

For Marius, it was hardly a choice.

.....

It was a simple plan, too simple to _really_ work, but Enjolras had his hopes high anyway.

The night itself seemed agreeable to their scheme, however. The sky was free of clouds, and the moon was not out--allowing for enough cover of darkness for Enjolras to sneak past the guard. Stars provided enough light so that he would not be traveling through a strange land in utter blackness.

At nightfall, Marius played drunk, staggering along the length of the wall and laughing jovially to himself until he reached the guard’s usual post, at the wall’s crumbled opening that had allowed his passage the night before.

The guard stood straight and his mouth went thin-lipped and stern, at Marius’s approach. Or perhaps he was always that stern--Marius didn’t doubt that. It took an absurd sort of man to make his home in front of a bloody _wall_ after all, protecting so ancient and mostly irrelevant a monument, even if the village had a rule in its books about the wall’s strict guardianship. No seemed to take it seriously except this man, and Marius and Enjolras both had to grant him some measure of respect, for that.

“You are under arrest, sir, for the trespass of the boundary of this land,” the guard began formally.

“I’m goin’ back over the wall,” Marius slurred in response, and made a hesitant move toward the gap. Hesitant enough though, and slow enough, for the guard to grab him roughly by the arm, and hurl him to the ground.

In the small cell that night, Marius dreamt of golden eyelashes soft against his cheek, his collarbone, and liquid eyes to accompany them. More than once, he sighed her name into the musty air, and prayed for her freedom, along with the safety of his closest friend. He nursed his bruises with something akin to hope.

While Enjolras took his only chance, and crossed the wall, as its stones left satisfying scrapes across his wrists and palms.

.....

It isn’t too different from his gray little village, at first. The trees are larger, with creeping roots winding through the earth and back up again, although the stars shine brighter, too, and Enjolras does not stumble among the trees. He hears life, in the distance, not unlike the sounds of Wall. Muffled voices and music increasing in volume. A piano, and some sort of string instrument, Enjolras considers. The music is more somber than the cheerful ditties they drink to in Wall. These compositions are more like poorly-composed elegies.

There is no room in his bones for doubt, though such a feeling might weaken another. Someone else might feel foolish, ridiculous, even, for what he has begun. But not Enjolras.

He knows little, but he knows that this is where he is meant to be, to begin his journey of saving the people of Stormhold from the terrors that confront them daily. He will even make his home here, for a time in peace, if he must. He is unsure of how to be begin, but he is certain he will find a way. If it's his destiny, the way will present itself, he believes.

But first, he supposes, he must sort the truth from the fiction, of all that he’s read over the past nineteen years of his life. The gossip of townfolk is a better place to start than any, as he has strode into this new country without anything even resembling an actual plan. Only the clothes on his back and what he could fit in his pockets. Revolutionaries must travel light.

The pub here, in whatever this small village is--Stormhold-Wall--is only half-full. Men appear dejected, speaking in low voices that Enjolras struggles to overhear. The one who hands him a mug of wine pales, and his hands begin to shake, when Enjolras passes him a copper coin in exchange for the service. But he is not a man of the world, not yet, and he does not take notice, listening instead to the mutterings of the men nearest him, and has a difficult time of it over the sound of the off-key piano in the corner. A dark-haired man hovers over dusty keys and plays without the aid of sheet music, although he could use some, unless the unsteady clamor is what passes for music in this land.

He wonders how Marius ever came across his beautiful lady, with her witch captors and an unbreakable chain wrapped around her ankle, in a place like this.

He wonders where in the hell the _magic_ is.

Two hours later, cornered and crowded by four men behind the pub, he finds it.

The men leer at him, they’ve seen the strange, foreign coins he carries, and even simple copper passes for riches in this land. When the leering will not persuade Enjolras, the men resort to brute strength instead, and while Enjolras fights back, he is unused to such unfair matches.

He doesn’t cry out as they begin to beat his limbs and face and ribs, but then he does, it escapes him before he can grit his teeth against it.

A moment, then two, later, and a sudden burst of light. Enjolras shields his eyes against it. His attackers scatter. When the light fades, gradually, and Enjolras dares to open his eyes and lower his arm, the dark-haired piano player stands before him. In one hand he holds onto the neck of a bottle, but his other hand is outstretched toward Enjolras.

After the flash of light, the night seems darker in comparison. Although the whites of the man’s eyes are oddly aglow.

Enjolras takes the man’s hand and allows him to help him to his feet. He doesn’t let go, once he’s upright, not yet.

“Enjolras,” he says, by way of introduction.

The other man drops his hand first. The gleam from his eyes is gone, and they are bloodshot now instead, but Enjolras does not doubt what he saw. “Grantaire,” he mumbles in response. “Are you all right?”

He straightens his crimson jacket--now dirty on the back and elbows--and takes a deep breath. “Yes. Thank you.”

A silence stretches between them, and Grantaire turns to go.

“Wait.”

“What?”

Another deep breath. “Was that light--was that _magic_?”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows, and his gaze rakes every angle of Enjolras’s body before returning to his face. He raises the bottle to his mouth, lowers it, licks his lips and smirks. “Not exactly.” 

And Enjolras hears the desperation ragged in his own voice. “Then--”

But Grantaire is looking from side to side, wary and afraid. “I must go. Those men saw what I was--”

“And what are you?”

“I knew you were a stranger to this country, though I did not think you so ignorant. You saw what I just did to save your hide, yes?” Grantaire looks at him imploringly.

Enjolras nods, and waits for a further answer.

“I’m a _star_ , you fool,” he says, exasperation giving way. “And I must leave this place. The sooner the better.”

But Enjolras won’t let him. “A star? _What_?”

“Yes, a star. A fallen star. Ever heard of us? What the hell kind of place are you from, anyway?”

“You _fell_?” Enjolras can’t hide the skepticism in his tone.

“Chose to fall, really.” Grantaire shrugs, takes another swig from the bottle in his hand. “Sick and tired of having to watch the shit you humans put each other through day after day after day. Do you know what it’s like up there, _watching_ you little people rape and murder one another for your precious little countries and causes? The wars and the schemes and the _depravity_? Oh, sure, humanity has its small lights, too.” Grantaire lowers his gaze from Enjolras then, briefly, before glancing back up at him. “But those flicker and die too fast. I chose to fall, but I didn’t think I’d drop down to this hellhole with the rest of you.”

“I want to change all of that, you know,” Enjolras says, and if Grantaire was not holding himself so guardedly, gripping his bottle like a last-resort weapon, he would try to take his hand. 

Behind his smirk, he can glimpse the sadness present in the blue of Grantaire’s eyes-- _like the sky_ , and Enjolras despises the cliche, but supposes that Grantaire _is a goddamned star from the goddamned sky_ , after all, since he’s chosen to believe it, and sky-colored eyes must be somewhat appropriate. “And you are one of those flames that the darkness will seek to put out,” Grantaire murmurs. “A great tragedy. Silly me, I thought to save you.”

Enjolras feels himself recoil from the pain in Grantaire’s voice. He is stronger than this, stronger than to be dragged down by the weight of an old drunk’s despair. He knows he must free Stormhold from its line of tyrannical masters who call themselves kings--only rarely does he consider that he might die in the attempt.

_I will die in service to a cause greater than myself_. For Stormhold.

“You may travel with me, if you wish,” Enjolras says, and watches the other man’s eyes widen. “After all the things that you have seen, you have more reason than most do, to join with me.” And Enjolras is calculating, too. For all his sadness and cynicism, he considers that a near-immortal, ancient being like Grantaire must be of some material use along the way.

“Yes,” he exhales, and for the first time his smile is genuine. “I will go with you.”


End file.
